


You, My Smoking Reflex

by TechnicolourRomantics



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: 1980s, Beds, Cigarettes, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Snapshots, Snippets, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourRomantics/pseuds/TechnicolourRomantics
Summary: The afterward was just as attractive, much to the same calibre as what came before.
Relationships: Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	You, My Smoking Reflex

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! 💓 
> 
> When I stumbled upon these gifs of Nick having a puff during Sing Blue Silver while looking killer, it was the most scorching thing I had come across in a while. 🔥 So powerful was his influence that it threw this snapshot into my mind. Enjoy!

**_1984, Sing Blue Silver Tour_ **

The sharp flick of the lighter serves as their descending serenade.

They lie together, sheets scantily draped across little.

Each other’s sweat on each other’s skin, legs and torsoes on shared exhibition painted red with the ghosts of possessive, scratching nails - the picture perfect erotica.

Nick’s neck curves, Adam’s apple bobbing as the cigarette slipped between his lips catches the flame.

John watches. He watches the black-lined beguiling eyes as they focus on a spot in the distance and could laser a hole in the wall.

The streaked remains of the eyeshadow, gloss, all else that adorned the face. Eyebrows criminally arched, easily ready to kill.

He watches as Nick takes a quick inhale, and his fingers quickly run through hair.

It’s messy, insanely raw, the earthy hair now even more teased and tussled, spiked strands falling on his face after John had buried his own hands deep on the scalp, when he had pushed him downward and tugged him close. 

With every drawn-out drag, satisfaction shoots through both their minds, Nick for the potent concoction of afterglow and nicotine, and John for those cheeks that fleetingly hollow, baring the shape of the bone. 

Lips lusciously suck on the smokes just as they had around him.

Cheeks hollow to inhale just as they had around him, to lap up every extra inch of him as he had writhed. 

Knife sharp, eyelined gaze never broke eye-contact with him from down south while that angelic, pretty mouth did its work. The devil in those eyes intensified the feeling tenfold.

_There, there, Nicholas. Just right,_ he had smirked, before the smugness had died in his throat and a low moan swam up to the surface instead with a twist and bob of the other man’s head.

The area under John’s covers burns warm again, at the memory, and at how Nick looks piercingly right back at him now while the smoke curls across those upturned lips - coated with gloss and himself.

Another inhale, as Nick lets his mouth hold the cigarette for a moment, hanging off the lips as his fingers cradle around. 

_Fuck, Nick._ The mere action rekindles the heat in him. He wants more.

He needs more.

It doesn’t take much for John to sidle close and lick long, flat stripes to Nick’s neck.

He revels in the replying tilt.

All while his hand reaches under, feeling for the perfect destination.

Bingo. 

Nick’s breath hitches, and he hisses as John tauntingly palms, thin fingers reflexively splaying and nearly dropping the cigarette. He exhales quickly, leftover tendrils of smoke forming a sultry swirl around their heads.

_Got you._

John edges forward to saving the tipping butt in Nick’s momentary tremor, his head moving to press the cigarette against his own lips as his eyes flutter shut and he steals a long drag, chest atop Nick's.

“Second round?”

The question comes out rough and barely audible, smothered against the shell of Nick’s ear. Lips go to taste and lick coolly all over the earlobe, moistened soft skin a delicacy - just for him.

A rise of gooseflesh. Nothing much is spoken.

But the answer comes in the hand that silently darts to stub the still-burning cigarette dead in the ashtray, flame fizzling as it meets cold glass.

The hand that glides wordlessly under the covers, playing touch with the skin underneath.

_Nearly there._

The hand that starts to mirror his motions, the manipulative curl of his fingers.

No words, jus- _Oh, yes, Nick._

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> https://13weeddemons.tumblr.com/post/88840343907
> 
> This. The gifset of pure sizzle.


End file.
